WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

2:21

| THE STAND:
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE |

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Aya stood like a statue, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyebrows raised with a sharpness that could slice through granite. Her eyes flicked between Marcel, Davina, and Rhea—landing last on the small, velvet-lined box sitting atop the table between them.

"This is your solution?" she asked flatly, her tone laced with incredulity. "The heart of a dead werewolf?"

Her distaste was palpable, like the very concept offended her centuries of elitist sensibilities.

Rhea didn't so much as flinch. She stepped forward, voice level, words purposeful. "Not just any werewolf." She glanced at Marcel, who offered a small, guilty shrug as he elaborated.

"Hayley's husband," he said, a little too casually—perhaps to mask the tension in his jaw.

Aya's expression didn't budge. Her eyes narrowed as if daring them to try and explain further. Marcel could practically feel the weight of her judgment pressing down on the room.

"We," Rhea gestured broadly between herself, Marcel, and Davina, "were at their wedding. Jackson's heart wasn't just flesh and blood—it was bound to Hayley's through ritual. An eternal tether. If any heart could serve as a powerful enough binding agent to replace a sire link, it's this one."

Aya turned to Davina and Marcel, her gaze cutting like a blade. "Is this true?" she asked tightly.

Davina straightened. Her voice was calm but confident. "She's right. The bond was magical in nature—pure, deep, and ancient. Symbolically and magically, this kind of heart is the strongest link to a living werewolf who's outside of the vampire bloodlines. It will work. I wouldn't have signed off on it if I thought otherwise."

Marcel nodded in agreement, though there was a flicker of guilt behind his eyes.

Aya's stare lingered on them a moment longer. She seemed to weigh their words in silence, then turned her gaze back to the box. She took a single step forward, her voice dropping just slightly.

"And I assume," she said slowly, "that the grieving widow didn't just hand this over." She cocked her head with serpentine curiosity. "So—how did you procure this little gem?"

The room fell silent for a breath too long.

The guilt hit them like a collective tidal wave. Rhea looked away first. Marcel clenched his jaw. Davina's shoulders tensed.

They didn't answer.

They didn't have to.

The truth hung in the air between them—stolen, taken from the resting place of a man whose memory was still raw, still sacred to someone they all cared about.

Aya let out a soft exhale, more amusement than exasperation. "Charming."

Marcel recovered first, stepping into his usual role—smooth-talking king of New Orleans, mask firmly in place. "This is my city," he said, flashing a tight smile. "Nothing happens in it without me knowing about it—or making it happen."